Skin
by merae2888
Summary: Clarke Griffin is a lot of things: hero, leader, surrogate mother, healer. And now she can add tattoo artist to that list.


I don't know what happened here. It wasn't supposed to get smutty but it did, a little. Just wanted to warn anyone that doesn't like to read that stuff! Otherwise, hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it and if so, please let me know! Reviews are like gold to me!

Disclaimer: I don't own The 100.

Skin

Clarke Griffin is a lot of things: hero, leader, surrogate mother, healer.

And now she can add tattoo artist to that list.

"Hold still!"

Jasper fidgets again and grasps Monty's hand tighter. "It stings!"

"I told you it was going to hurt," Clarke chastises.

Jasper goes still. "It's good that it hurts," he says quietly.

Monty and Clarke glance at each other before she goes back to work.

Lincoln's method of tattooing is a far cry from the modern machine that was popular before the nuclear war. He taught her using Octavia's arm. At the bend in her elbow, he took a crude needle of bone and scraped a dandelion that broke in the wind just to transform into butterflies that blew away toward her wrist and took flight from the palm of her hand. It was stunning and as soon as she showed it off around camp, everyone wanted one.

As Clarke digs the razor sharp piece of bone into Jasper's skin, she can't help but wonder how they ever got her to agree to do this. She's a healer. She's already left too many scars upon the world and now she was purposefully creating more.

"If you don't do it, they'll find another way." Bellamy had told her in his disapproving tone before shaking his head. "I hate to think what they might come up with."

She smiles, remembering fondly the way his forehead creased as he stared out at the kids huddled together, talking excitedly about what tattoo they were each going to get. Big Bad Bellamy Blake is such a worrywart.

Words are the hardest and Jasper's been bleeding and whining for almost three hours as she carves the phrase 'None of us is innocent' into his chest, near his heart and under it, the date of the Battle at Mount Weather in a smaller print.

All he told her, while his eyes glistened with tears, was that it was for Maya and Clarke hadn't pressed for more details, wasn't sure she could stand to hear them. Monty had been standing behind him, his unfailing supporter, and Clarke had just nodded. The sight of them together again was too good to protest anything.

Bellamy walks in, ready to tell Clarke something, but he spots Jasper bare chested and her kneeling in front of him with her hand on his naked waist holding him steady. Bellamy winces. "Uh...sorry."

Clarke doesn't look up, so he can't see her trying not to laugh. "It's okay. We're done."

"We are?" Jasper asks, an obvious note of relief in his voice. He takes a broken mirror from Monty and holds it out so he can see the finished product. "Wow."

"You did good, Jasper." Monty says and he sounds more than awed.

"Clarke did good," Jasper replies, sending her a grateful smile that she can't fully return.

"I'm glad you like it." She wipes a bloody cloth over the fresh ink and wraps it with a clean piece of cloth. "Keep it covered," she commands as she ties the makeshift bandage tight around his shoulder. Jasper springs up, all former pain forgotten as he pulls on his shirt.

"Thank you." He folds Clarke into a hug and she's so stunned she can't move for a moment. He hasn't really touched her, let alone acknowledged her since she came back. She squeezes him softly before he steps away and walks out with Monty.

Bellamy clears his throat, like all the residual emotion in the room might choke him. "It did look good. You're getting better," he offers lamely.

She just nods. She can feel him watching her as she cleans up. She swears his eyes are made of lasers.

When she finally meets his gaze, she asks innocently, "You next?"

He threw a fit over Octavia's tattoo, grumbling about wasted time and pointless decoration. When the other delinquents started coming to Clarke for designs, he complained that she didn't need to spoil them.

But then he saw Murphy's. The phoenix sheathed in the flames of rebirth rising up his chest, feathers curving over his collarbones, detailed to agonizing perfection by Clarke, had transformed all of Bellamy's exasperation to bitter envy.

Clarke tried not to find it cute. Big Bad Bellamy Blake was jealous of a picture. Or, more likely, of the three days she spent drawing patterns on Murphy's bare chest. It wasn't cute; it was silly, she told herself firmly.

But that iron will of hers didn't stop her from drawing tattoo ideas for Bellamy in the little journal Lincoln had made for her. There were about six now that she really wanted to see painted on his skin, formed over the hard expanse of muscles on his back. She had never showed him, though. She could hear his annoyed protest, the 'better things to do with my time' excuse clearly in her head.

So when she asks that question, she expects a rebuke. Instead, she gets a smile.

He steps over to her and silently hands her a torn piece of paper. She knows it's from her journal, knows exactly what it must be and looks up at him in shock.

"Where did you-"

"You left it in my hut."

Her cheeks flush immediately. She sleeps there sometimes, when the nightmares are brutal. They don't talk about it. She comes in and he scoots over and she hogs the covers and he snores and they wake up in a tangle of warm limbs and she pokes fun at his morning breath and he tickles her and they don't talk about it.

With an unfairly cute smirk, he takes off his shirt, his body moving with a fluidity that never fails to mesmerize her. The candlelight makes his skin glow and he sits in Jasper's vacated chair and drapes his arms lazily over the back.

"This better be ten times better than Murphy's," he declares.

She smiles as she unfolds the drawing because it's her favorite and she's more than excited that he likes it enough to permanently etch it on himself. She wipes down his back with a wet rag, cleansing his skin of sweat and dirt. Maybe she imagines it, but his breathing grows ragged when her fingers brush against him.

After she pats him dry, she grabs her pencil and the ink to sketch out the design.

"How big do you want it?"

He shrugs. "You're the artist, Clarke. I'm just your willing canvas."

She rolls her eyes even though he can't see her. "It's your body, Bellamy. You have to live with it."

He tilts his head over his shoulder to meet her gaze. "I trust you." Their eyes hold for a moment, the onyx fire of his burning the moon bright blue in hers. "Just, cover them all," he whispers eventually.

She knows what he means. She runs her fingers down his spine, over the scars inflicted by the monsters from the mountain, and he shivers.

She gets to work.

It takes days and she breaks up the sessions to let his skin rest and the ink set. When she asks why no one bothers them one morning, he says, "Murphy's handling things."

They don't talk much. They've never had to and it's an odd comfort, this gift of silence they give each other.

He holds perfectly still most of the time, only tensing up when she scrapes at a scar. She shakes sometimes, terrified of making a mistake, of marring the beauty that is Bellamy's body. The ink stays over the fire and she pours the hot liquid into the new perforations she's creating, replacing the evidence of his torture with something worthy of being on his skin. She pours herself into him. All the practice, every trace she's ever made of pencil on paper was to prepare for this. He's her masterpiece.

The moon crests across his shoulder blades and the lone wolf walks in its center, challenges everyone with his stare. His eyes are Bellamy's and his body rises from the tops of trees that stretch across the forest along his lower back. Between the trunks peer the eyes of his people, in wolf form, following their leader. You have to squint to see them all, blended as they are but she didn't miss anyone. The only other prominent wolf has vivid eyes and a downturned mouth. She stands to the left of his flank.

"Lone wolf turned leader of the pack," she whispers.

Clarke cleans the blood, hands him the mirror. He turns it this way and that, trying to see all of it from the awkward angle, quiet enough to make her nervous.

"I hope you like it 'cause not like I can erase-"

"Clarke." He takes her hand, presses his lips to her fingers, her wrist. "Thank you."

"Bell," she whispers when he skates his nose across her cheek, his open mouth wet against her jaw.

"Don't ruin it," he quips and she laughs and he slides his mouth over hers, swallowing his favorite sound.

He pulls her shirt off and drags her to the bed. She straddles him and he hisses when his back hits the cot. "Maybe you should be on top," she says slyly. He shifts them so fast, his body suddenly weighing her down in all the right places. His fingers pluck at the button on her jeans, her hands skim up his sides. She dips her fingers into the waistband of his pants and her bites her earlobe, hard.

Her underwear follows his boxers to the ground. It's not frantic, they way she always thought it might be. He takes his precious time, pressing soft, slow kisses to all the skin he's been dreaming about. He explores every inch of her collarbone and he lingers around her breasts and his tongue dips into her navel while he slides his fingers through her slick folds. Their naked flesh comes alive in new ways as he moves over her. She's practically vibrating when his head falls between her thighs, his hot tongue easing over her center in gentle, frustrating passes. She tugs at his hair as an exhale falls from her lips. It sounds like his name. He works her harder with his tongue on her clit and slides two fingers inside, curling them up and hitting someplace Clarke didn't even know existed, drawing that noise, half sigh, half his name, from her again as she falls over that burning edge of ecstasy.

Her skin's slightly sticky with sweat when he crawls over her. Their kisses turn sloppy, all tongue and teeth and her chest heaves against him. His cock pushes against her and her grabs her chin, keeps her eyes on him as he slides into her. He stills, savoring the look on her face, pupils blown wide with lust, and thinks he could stay here forever, inside of her, surrounded by her sweet heat.

She rises to meet his thrusts and he fills her again and again, his hand holds hers, palm to sweaty palm and he whispers her name like a promise into her neck as he comes and Clarke thinks she finally understands the difference between fucking and making love.

He's breathing hard, trying to calm his frantic heart as he rolls away and she follows. They lay facing each other, close enough to that their noses graze and their breaths mingle.

Clarke can't help herself. "So…you like your tattoo?" she asks in this wonderfully hoarse whisper.

He shakes his head, laughing softly. He cuddles her close, leaves a wet path of baby kisses across her forehead. "I love it."

"Good." She pulls back only enough to kiss the tiny scar on his top lip. "I designed it for you," she admits shyly.

"I know."

She nods and he just watches her in this new powerful way that she's pretty sure she doesn't deserve. She leans her head into his chest, inhales the musk of his skin. "I'd tell you 'I love you' but I don't think it's enough."

He holds her closer. "I know how you feel."

"But," she kisses him over his heart. "I do."

She can feel him smile into her hair. "I love you, too."

And then they fall, into sleep, into each other, into love.

The End


End file.
